


Ballet and Bikers

by nymja



Series: Van Gogh and Vodka Verse [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ballet, Boxing, F/M, Motorcycle Gangs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-12
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-22 12:16:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3728605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Octavia Blake's always been out of step.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Faille

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a spin-off from my Bellarke fic, starting somewhere around the beginning of chapter four in Van Gogh and Vodka. It should be able to stand on its own without reading the first fic, though! Here's the main things:
> 
> -The Delinquents are enrolled at Grounded University as part of an early-release/halfway program from prison, Octavia hasn't been great at attending her classes  
> -Octavia injured her leg in a motorcycle crash--her boyfriend (Atom) was the driver, and was killed  
> -Octavia and Bellamy have a Messed Up Family Past (that is mostly going to be looked into in this fic!)
> 
> Shorter chapters for now! We’ll see how long I last with that :P

_Breathe in._

Octavia keeps her eyes closed, taking a deep draw of air with her nose. She lets it fill her up from the top of chest to the pool of her stomach. Her leg gives a dull twinge, sore around the knee and thigh, but she ignores it as best she can as she continues to lie on her back.

_Breathe out._

She hears her spine crack, little snaps from under the base of her skull all the way down to just above her ass. She groans, but doesn’t move until she presses into the flats of her feet and lifts her hips. The dull twinge sharpens at the movement, but she ignores it.

_Breathe in._

Her hips lift higher, peeling her spine from the mat. She holds it. Her knee starts to shake.

_Breathe out._

“Hold it, Octavia,” she hears Nyko, her physical therapist, say from somewhere near her side.

_Breathe in._

Pain shoots up from the area around her patella. It feels like her body’s about to cave-in on itself.

_Breathe out._

“A few more seconds…”

Octavia grits her teeth. It’s a near-blinding pain now. She feels her ankle go weak-

“One more cycle. You can do it.”

_Breathe in._

“Screw-”

_Breathe out._

“-you-”

_Breathe in-_

“-Nyko.”

Octavia collapses back to the mat, her chest rising and falling in shallow movements. Sweat makes her exercise shirt cling to her skin. The pain in her knee stays, but becomes more of a throb than a stab.

“How long?” She asks, when she doesn’t feel like she’s about to die.

Above her face, the tattooed, bearded visage of her physical therapist comes into view. “Ten seconds longer than yesterday.”

Disappointment washes over her, “That’s it?”

“Small improvements are still improvements, Octavia.”

She bites down on her lip, trying not to lash out. The failure belongs entirely to herself, and she knows better than to take it out on Nyko. For one, he doesn’t suck nearly as bad as her last physical therapist. Still, she can’t stop her fingers from making fists where they lay by her side.

“Give me a minute, and I’ll go back to the squats-“

Nyko stares at her, before slowly shaking his head. “We’ve worked enough for today.”

“I can do more.”

“Part of training is allowing for rest.”

“ _I can do more._ ”

“You can,” he agrees, offering Octavia his hand, which she reluctantly takes. Nyko doesn’t even grunt as he lifts her body up into a standing position, “And you can also blow out your knee again.”

She grinds her teeth together, unable to stop the anger and frustration building up in her chest, “I’m going so slow.”

Nyko’s smile is small, but sympathetic, as he pats her on the shoulder. “ _Healing_ is slow, Octavia. Don’t rush it, or you’ll undo all your hard work.”

Octavia squeezes her eyes shut, “Yeah. I get it.”

“Do you.”

She bites back a quick retort, instead shaking her head, “Okay. I’m trying to get it.”

“You are. And time is the only other thing I can ask of you.”

Octavia's unable to argue with the therapist despite how much she wants to. Instead she just sighs, “Same time tomorrow?”

Nyko nods, “Same time tomorrow. Good work today.”

It doesn’t feel like good work. It feels like disappointment, “Sure.”

She says her goodbyes, and Octavia forces herself to ignore the aching in her knee in order to leave the exercise room.

\---

When finally she gets to her locker to grab her brace and duffel, she’s surprised to see there's already someone sitting next to it. Octavia knows the guy, but she doesn’t _know_ him. The man sitting on the bench is a regular here, and Nyko’s other usual patient. To be honest, Octavia’s not sure what to make of him—he’s, above anything else, _silent._ And intense.

Tall, Dark, and Brooding has no small amount of tattoos, a short Mohawk, and instantly snaps his attention to her when she walks into the locker room. She’s not sure what to make of that either, but it’s been happening more and more.

Unsure what to do with a strange man intensely focused on her, Octavia clears her throat.

“Hey.”

The man says nothing and taking that as dismissal, Octavia goes to grab her things. She feels his stare for a moment or two longer, before she brushes it off and retrieves her brace. She winces as she forces her body back into a sitting position in order to secure it to her leg, the dull ache flaring up once more as she extends her left leg, undoes the velcro of the ACE bandage, and readjusts her brace.

“Sucks, doesn’t it?” She asks, more to herself than the grim man beside her. She’s been coming here for a few weeks now, and he’s never said anything beyond a basic sentence, “Waiting.”

“Yes.”

His voice is enough to jar her concentration, and Octavia turns to her side where he sits. She watches, as he undoes into his own gym bag and pulls out medical bandages. He struggles with unrolling them, his fingers uncoordinated and stiff as he tries to pull off the adhesive.

She watches him suffer for a few more moments before second-hand pain gets the better of her. “Here, toss it over.”

His face is expressionless as he watches her, then his tape, before wordlessly offering it. She’s not sure why, but the motion makes her smile. Octavia digs her thumb into the crease, and pulls it apart, “Got it. Let me see your hand.”

“Why.”

She can’t stop the rolling of her eyes, “I want to high-five over my victory, obviously.”

The grim man’s lips twitch up into a quiet smile. It's a nice smile.

She returns it, before sliding over, “I got it, don’t worry.”

Without waiting for an invitation (mostly because she just wants to do _something_ right today), she starts to wrap the tape gingerly around each of his fingers. His hands are big. Steady. And after a moment, he concedes and spreads them in order for her to wrap more efficiently. It’s got to hurt like a motherfucker, but he doesn’t flinch.

“So,” she asks with a hint of sarcasm, “What are you in for?”

She doesn’t think he’s going to answer her, but as she starts taping up his last finger, he mutters a response. “Boxer’s fracture. Dislocated elbow. Torn rotary cuff.”

Octavia gives a low whistle, not looking up from her task, “So you’re a fighter?”

“Yes.”

“Boxing?”

“Yes.”

“Never seen it in person,” she comments, finishing up and withdrawing her fingers from his busted hand, “But I’m guessing it’s as painful as it seems on TV?”

She looks up just in time to see the small smile morph into a grin. Octavia swallows. He looks…more like a person, “Worse.”

He still has his hand outstretched between them. Octavia leans back a little, suddenly uncomfortable with the proximity she previously thought nothing of.

“I guess you think you’re pretty hardcore, then.”

The Brooding Boxer doesn’t answer. Instead, he gives his wrist an experimental rotation. Octavia watches, transfixed as he makes the damaged arm move, “…You’re good at this.”

“Practice,” she says dryly.

“Are you a fighter?”

“Dancer. I’ve bandaged up my toes more times than I’d care to count.”

His eyes drift to her bandaged knee. Octavia bites down on her lip, and decides it’s time to leave. Before questions start.

“I’d better get going,” she offers, shuffling into a stand. He moves to help her, but she manages on her own before he can.

He hesitates, and it looks like he wants to say something. But Octavia waits, and he remains silent. Finally she shoulders her bag and offers what she hopes is a friendly-enough smile.

“I’m Octavia, by the way.”

He watches her, watches her leg, and her body tenses.

Finally, he dips his head, “My name is Lincoln.”

Like the hospital, she immediately thinks. Instead she returns the gesture, offering a half wave from the hand holding her gym bag’s strap, “See you tomorrow, Lincoln.”

“Octavia,” he says her name slowly in departure, and she shoots him a brief, assessing look before she walks out of the locker room.

\---

She thinks about texting Bellamy, to let him know how her session went. She decides against it, and texts Jasper to let him know she’s coming over instead.

\---

She’s known Jasper Jordan and Monty Green for a few years now, and when she doesn’t feel like being by herself, or sharing a room with her dormmate (who isn’t Arc, who _doesn’t get it_ and has obnoxious framed photographs everywhere) she crashes at their apartment off-campus. Octavia’s not sure how they got the cash to pay for the initial deposit and rent, but where they continue to get the rest of rent money is easy enough to figure out.

“Octavia,” Jasper greets as he opens the door, rolls of smoke filtering out behind him and into the hall, “You want pizza?”

His eyes are bloodshot, and past him, Octavia can see Monty intermittedly watching a Disney movie and inhaling from a bong.

“Sure,” she says, giving Jasper a brief pat on the cheek as she walks past him to plop down beside Monty on the well-worn sofa, “What’re we watching?”

Monty turns, grins hello at her, and turns back to the screen, “ _Toy Story._ You ever see it?”

She hasn’t seen any Disney movies, but Octavia scoops up a piece of pizza on the coffee table and snuggles into the cushions, “My favorite.”

Jasper sits down next to her, arm resting on the backrest behind her head, “How’d it go today?”

“Sucks. Same as everyday,” she mutters between chomps, eyes glued to the screen as a talking cowboy and spaceman fight with a weird, baby-head thing.

“You think you’re going to be ready for next year?” Monty asks, and if it wasn’t for the genuine concern in his voice she would’ve snapped at him for bringing it up.

But it’s Monty. And even she doesn’t have it in her to be a total dick to him.

“Not at the rate I’m going,” she snorts, tilting her head back and feeling Jasper’s arm underneath it, “Looks like I’m stuck here next semester already.”

Jasper looks at her, a wide smile on his face—like they’re co-conspirators or something, “Being here with us for another year’s not so bad, is it?”

The honest answer is that it is and it isn’t. She’s been doing what someone else wanted her entire life. First her mom. Then her various foster parents and social workers. Then the officers and councilors at ARC. Staying at Grounded University was just one more set of bars on a life that was already too full of them. Dance was the only thing that was really _hers,_ and it was something she wanted to do on her own terms. Outside of this damn city, if she could help it.

But. Here had her people. Here had Clarke, Jasper, Monty, Harper, Finn, and the others. Here had Bell.

…here also had memories of shattered legs and overturned motorcycles. Atom’s face drifted across her mind and she kept her eyes trained to the television to avoid looking at either of her two closest friends.

“Can I crash here tonight?” She asks in lieu of answering.

Monty laughs, jutting her side lightly with his elbow, “You might as well just move in, you know. We can afford it.”

It’s tempting. But moving in means staying. And she was trying to do what she could to avoid staying.

“Until someone calls the cops for your live-in hotbox,” she forces her tone to be light, even adds a snort to the end of the sentence.

“Nah,” Jasper says with a grin, completely oblivious to her real thoughts and resting his head against the top of hers, “We give the neighbors a discount.”

\--

They eat pizza, Monty and Jasper smoke more weed, and they watch Disney movies. Octavia sleeps on their couch, and she leaves as soon as she wakes up to head back to the gym.

She wants to get better. She _has_ to get better. And soon.


	2. Knock Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Octavia's dancing was inspired by [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VzM9Mt_cpq0) performace! Though it's much, much more simplified in the fic.

**i.**

It’s four in the morning. He can’t sleep, so he draws.

At first, his hand spasms in defiance. But he keeps his eyes trained on the sketchbook instead of the fingers straining to hold onto the charcoal as loosely as possible. Gradually, the pain recedes enough for him to focus as he makes small, lazy ellipses and straight lines, trying to get the muscles in his fingers and forearm relaxed enough to do a warm-up sketch. He feels his jaw work as he fights down the pain, and there’s a slight tremor to his grip. But he turns up the volume on his headphones, and it helps drown everything—including the pain—out.

Slow electronica fills his ears, and he uses the repetitive back-beat to time the movement in his sketch. Eventually, the ellipses become strands of hair. The ovals make ears, eyebrows, a nose, lips. A smile.

After about forty-five minutes, his hand is starting to truly seize up, so he sets down his charcoal. His index finger and thumb are completely blackened from gripping it too hard, and it makes him frown a little before he looks at the finished product.

The dancer looks back at him from the paper.

 _Octavia,_ he reminds himself, thinking back to the day before. How she didn’t hesitate to speak to him, or to grab his fingers and bandage them. The memory of her warm fingers gripping his own makes Lincoln smile. Probably for the first time he’s when he thinks of his ruined hand.

He spends a little time cleaning up his sketch, even though he likes the scratchy, unpolished quality to it. After a few more minutes, his alarm goes off, piercing through the bass lines in his headphones. Wincing at the abrasive intrusion, he looks over at the damn machine before slamming it off with a single punch from his good hand.

The time reads five am.  That makes it time to go back to the gym.

Lincoln carefully pushes his art supplies to the corner of his work desk, and starts to pack his gear, replacing charcoal for medical tape and sketch paper for a pair of well-worn, red boxing gloves.

\--

Nyko’s place is almost as familiar to him as his own apartment. While the complex his older friend owns is mostly for physical therapy, PT isn’t the only thing housed in the various gyms and workout stations. Lincoln knows for a fact that the older Club member often sublets his unneeded rooms for things like yoga classes or Zumba sessions to make some extra cash—his older friend even has a dance studio that he leases to a local ballet instructor for the kid lessons. For a discount. That was the unspoken rule of the Triku neighborhood: they take care of their own.

And while Lincoln is more than familiar with the physical therapy rooms on the ground floor, Lincoln’s more familiar with the boxing gym. It’s tucked away in the corner, and old as hell. Probably the oldest room in the place—Lincoln remembers his dad sending him in for training as soon as he was old enough to make a fist. For a while, Nyko had taught him. Then Indra. Eventually Nyko stopped training full-time, hanging up the gloves during the week in favor of a getting a degree and running a legitimate business. But Lincoln didn’t. Even after his dad died, Lincoln kept fighting.

He makes his way to the old boxing room, and as he walks down the basement steps, a twinge of pain in his shoulder surges up as soon as his hand rests on the railing.

Lincoln pauses in his step as he slowly rubs his wrist. Even with the bum arm, he wants to keep fighting. The match against Tristan a month ago left him with a minor title and a good amount of money in earnings, but it also left him with several boxer’s fractures in his right hand, a sprained wrist, a dislocated elbow, and a torn rotator cuff in his shoulder. Indra was far from happy about it. Especially since Tristan used an illegal move to cause the injury in the first place.

But he’s had worse. And he knows he’ll manage. Though with every passing day in PT, he thinks more and more about hanging up the gloves—at least for Trigedakru Club and their less-than-sanctioned fights. He’s heard enough stories about guys getting beat to shit in back alleys for not throwing a match they should’ve thrown. And he was starting to get good. Too good. When Trigedakru fighters got too good, the Mountain Men noticed. When the Mountain Men noticed, fighters either got out of the way, retired, or went missing. The ring was just another place they decided to wage war in.

But deep down, he knows he won’t quit fighting for the gang. Trigedakru has its problems, but it at least it isn’t Mt. Weather. And Trigedakru is family, for better or worse.

And nothing really matches the control he feels when his hand slams against the punching bag.

He gets to the bottom of the stairs. The twinge returns to its usual dull throb. At least, nothing beats the feel of his hand slamming against the punching bag when it isn’t busted to hell.

The main hall of the basement is usually empty, and it’s almost never used unless Trigedakru has a club meeting, or there’s members who want to train in the old gym instead of the new one. Lincoln prefers the solitude. The underground boxing room is quiet and hardly ever disturbed, as the other rooms that pepper the hall barely get any use either.

Except for one.

Lincoln frowns as he looks down the hallway. At the end, where there should only be the green glow of an EXIT sign, there’s instead a small flood of light spilling out from an opened door. He’s not sure what room the door’s from, or who would be in there at this hour, but odd’s are it’s someone from Trigedakru. They’re the only ones besides Nyko with keys to the place, and the physical therapist only comes in at eight at the earliest.

He unhooks one of his earbuds, letting it hang limply around his neck. There’s a light, distorted sound. Music? Lincoln takes a few cautious steps forward, the distortion clearing and some kind of electronic piano filling the air in its place.

Dance music.

He approaches the door and stops himself just before the threshold. Looks in.

It’s one of the old dance studios. He vaguely remembers Nyko talking about remodeling it at some point—one of the big studio mirrors that line the wall has a huge crack in the middle of it, and he can tell the floor’s got a few loose boards. The room’s coated in dust, but he notices that the floor’s been wiped hastily clean. That there’s an old stereo plugged in at the corner of the dance space.

And that the space is occupied.

Octavia stands in front of the cracked mirror, one of her hands gripping the bar. As the piano notes increase in their tempo, she slides a bare foot across the floor, toe to heel. It looks like someone moving on ice. One arm still on the bar, she bends her knee forward, swooping into a lean. It reminds him, a little, of the warrior’s pose in yoga. He watches, as her back leg (the one with the brace) stays rooted, the weight of her sway more supported by her arm as she grips the bar tighter.

The piano music goes faster. She shifts all of her weight to the unsupported leg, going up on her toes. He stares, transfixed, as she uses only her toes to hold the entire weight of her body, the arm gripping the bar falling slack.

She then moves into a spin, the thinly-corded muscle of her exposed lower leg flexing. She keeps spinning. A second rotation. A third. All only on the balance of one leg—all only on the balance of her toes.

She’s strong.

When her injured leg connects with the floor, it’s done with a precise control that reminds him of the way he carefully positions his fingers in a glove. Her leg wobbles, a little, but when Lincoln looks up, no pain shows on her face. Instead, Octavia’s features are drawn into a mask of grim determination, with only the slight clenching of her jaw serving as the only give away to the strain she’s no doubt feeling.

Octavia draws her unbraced foot in a slow half-circle in front of her, bending forward in time to the music. Her loose shirt rides up a little with the motion, revealing the flat, toned abdomen of a dancer. He swallows slowly, all of a sudden feeling like an intruder. But he doesn’t leave just yet.

Octavia bends her knees once more, a slow hiss escaping her lips she goes into another, careful rotation.

He keeps observing, even if his common sense is screaming at him to go back to the old boxing room. To maybe let Nyko know to fix the loose window she no doubt used to sneak in before gym hours.

But Lincoln still doesn’t move. He suddenly wishes, more than anything, that he had his sketchbook with him. Because there’s something simple in Octavia’s movements, in the careful exercises instead of the full-fledged choreography, that’s beautiful to look at.

She’s…

The piano music halts.  
Octavia leaps.  
Lands.  
Holds the position.  
Shakes.

She inhales-  
and her bad knee collapses to the floor-

“ _Fuck,_ ” Octavia cries, eyes squeezing shut in pain as the jarring sound of the impact echoes throughout the basement.

Lincoln goes to move, not sure what he’s trying to accomplish other than making sure she’s alright. But before he can even step in, she pushes herself back up to match the tempo picking up again, moving into another slow spin and he watches her neck strain from the grimace that’s overtaken her face.

She keeps dancing.

He stills in his spot.

Lincoln waits until the end of the song merges into the beginning of another, before he quietly retreats to the boxing gym at the end of the hall. Certain not to distract her from training.

\--

An hour later, after he’s done some reps, he’s about to climb up the basement steps when he hears louder electronica coming from the same room.

A smile makes its way to his face. And Lincoln decides to keep her secret as he heads up to the main level for his morning PT session with Nyko.

\--

Later that night, he draws the silhouette of a dancer. She has an extended leg, an arching back, and a curtain of long, dark hair.

 

**ii.**

“How long.” Indra, as always, is quick to get to the point.

Lincoln keeps his expression blank as he slowly curls a weight up from his leg to shoulder-height. Every part of his arm is screaming for him to stop, but his mind drifts to Octavia’s knee smacking against the hard wood and how she still managed to push herself up in order to meet the beat of her song. His arm curls up. He holds the weight like Nyko instructed for a few seconds, before letting his arm drop in a controlled motion.

“Another month.”

“The fight against Lovejoy is in two,” his trainer is still beside him, her eyes coldly assessing the movement of his arm. “Will you be ready,” her words takes on a challenge, “Or should I be prepping Artigas.”

Lincoln brings up the weight once more. Inhales slowly through his nose. Counts to five. Lets it drop. Lovejoy is one of Mt. Weather’s favorite fighters. He’s been wanting the opportunity for months now to go against him in the ring.

“I’ll get ready.”

“Hm,” Indra’s scoff is hard to read as either approval or disdain, and her arms cross over her chest as she walks a short circle around him, “Haven’t seen you at Tondc lately.”

The Trigedakru club house is the last place he wants to be with his injured arm, but he knows better than to say the thought out loud to one of his road captains, “Been training.”

She purses her lips, her scarred eyebrows raising, “Club meeting next week. You’d better make an appearance,” she reaches down to grab her keys from the nearby gym bag, “Weather tried to take out one of ours two days ago.”

His lips tug into a frown, “Who?”

“Echo.”

He knows of her. A runner. He lifts up his weight once more. Inhales. Exhales.

“As you can imagine, there’s about to be some _changes_ in policy,” Indra hoists her own gear over her shoulder, and her head tilts to the side, “Stay in our neighborhoods until it’s straightened out. Word is Cage is betting heavily against you in the next match.”

Lincoln nods. Drops the weight down.

Indra sends him a slow once-over, before she tightly shakes her head, “Start increasing your weights to thirty.”

“Nyko-“

“I’ve spoken with Nyko. He cleared it. I need you in shape, and fast.”

And with the order, she leaves. He waits for the tell-tale growl of Indra’s cruiser outside before he puts down the dumbbell, and grabs the thirty pound one instead.

The fact that Mt. Weather is attacking mid-level members like Echo doesn’t sit well with him. And when he continues his curls, it’s with an added determination.

\--

“Your friend is going to blow her MCL again,” Nyko mutters with no small amount of annoyance from his place above Lincoln’s head.

Lincoln lifts the bar from his chest and extends his arms for another rep. He knows immediately who his…friend is, “Octavia is determined.”

Nyko’s beard shifts with the twitch of his lip, “I’ve noticed.”

Lincoln sees Nyko’s attention transfer from spotting him to the entrance of the physical therapy gym. And before Lincoln really thinks about what he’s doing, he bench presses the bar up high enough to rest on its supports. With a muted groan, he forces his sore body into a sitting position, following his friend’s line of vision.

She’s back.  
With him.

He’s not sure what to make of the dark-haired man that constantly hovers over her. Lincoln’s barely spoken to Octavia, but for some reason entertaining the possibility of her having a boyfriend doesn’t rest easy. Lincoln’s mind drifts to the first time he saw her, a few months ago, playing pool with a different dark-haired man at the Dropship. And he remembers being drawn to her laugh, the smile on her face when she finally managed to sink a shot. At the time, he hadn’t given it much consideration other than a flare of attraction, but when he came in for PT after his disastrous fight, she had been there. And he had recognized her instantly.

…Octavia made an impression.

“It’s her brother,” Nyko comments, and Lincoln’s known him long enough to detect the undernote of humor at his expense, “In case you were wondering.”

Lincoln watches as she exchanges words with the man beside her. Now that Nyko’s pointed out their relationship, he can see the similarities: the stubborn set of the jaw, the posture that comes with crossed arms. Although he doesn’t realize it, the grip he still has on the barbell relaxes a little.

It’s not until the man-- _brother_ \--meets his gaze that Lincoln realizes he’s been staring again. Much like the week before. Ever since then, the brother hasn’t been sitting in on Octavia’s sessions. Or glaring at him. The protectiveness is more confusing now that he knows the man’s not her boyfriend.

Her brother mentions something to her after looking away from him. But Lincoln doesn’t give it much consideration. Instead he watches as Octavia brushes off her helicopter sibling and walks over to him and Nyko’s training station.

“She’s trouble,” Nyko observes, though it doesn’t sound negative.

 _Maybe._ Lincoln thinks. But when she smiles at him in greeting, he thinks it’s maybe a trouble he doesn’t mind having.

\--

“So do you just live here?” Octavia asks as the two of them do stretches next to each other. Her leg is extended in front of her, hands wrapped around her foot as she bends deeper into the pose.

He’s never been much of a conversationalist—as an introvert, he’s always been more partial toward observing. But somehow talking to Octavia has become as easy as talking with Nyko, however sparse their conversations may be.

“Lately.”

She snorts, and slowly shifts legs, “It’s got to get old.”

It does. Until recently. Lincoln stares at the lines of her body for just a second too long before he turns his attention back to his own wrist rotations, “I usually prefer the boxing ring.”

Octavia blinks, “Wait, here?”

“Yes.”

“There’s a boxing ring?”

“Three,” he drops to sit beside her on the mat, mimicking her earlier leg stretches as she alternates back to her injured leg, “Nyko hosts the Trigedakru training here.”

“Trigedakru? Like…the gang?”

He sends her a slow look out of the corner of his eye. Octavia’s tense, but not frowning. He’s not sure what to make of it, and so just decides to be honest, “The Club.”

“Are you…”

“Yes.”

She doesn’t move away from him, and when she shifts, the outside of their thighs brush for just a second. The fleeting warmth is missed as soon as it is gone. There’s a heaviness in the air between them, one he doesn’t think is uncomfortable. Instead, it’s the sort of tension that coils, makes him want to feel her pressed against him-

Octavia clears her throat, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she leans down once more, “Fair’s fair. My turn—I just got out of jail five months ago.”

He blinks, trying to decipher what to do with her statement. He’s surprised to see the start of a grin on her lips. So surprised, he stares at it for a little longer than he needs to.

“Now I’m with the Arc program. Not as cool as the resident biker gang, I know,” she looks up to meet his gaze, “But I’m working my way up to badass.”

Lincoln’s heart thrums under his chest. Not from her words, but at her attention. It’s...a privilege, to be the center of it. One he doesn’t want to waste.

“…resident biker club,” he corrects with a tiny smirk.

Octavia matches the expression, rolling her eyes, “Whatever you want to call it for tax purposes.”

The pair of them go through their remaining exercises in a silence that makes him highly aware of both of their bodies. Lincoln’s always been confident enough in his appearance, but having her there makes him move more carefully. If under duress, he’d reluctantly admit to a deliberate slowing of his arm flexes.

Just when he thinks they’re about to complete the remainder of their exercises in silence, she cuts through it.

“By the way,” Octavia mumbles, stretching her folded hands over her head, “Thanks for not ratting me out.”

He tilts his head down toward hers, “With what?”

“The studio. I know I’m not supposed to be in there before hours. Or-” she bends down to touch her toes, “-at all.”

Lincoln tenses, and his uncomfortableness at having been caught watching her dance must show on his face (his emotions usually don’t. It’s odd to have someone pick up on them so quickly), because Octavia presses on.

“But, hey. If it makes you feel better,” she straightens back up, and he’s not sure if he’s imagining that her movements, too, are a little slower than they need to be, “…I don’t mind having an audience.”

Before he can formulate a response, she moves to the rowing machine, where Nyko’s ready to administer the rest of her leg exercises.

\--

It’s hard to concentrate on anything else but her for the rest of the day. Or week.

\--

When he leaves the gym late one night, after helping Nyko close up, he notices a parked SUV across the road. The windows are blacked out, but that in and of itself isn’t enough to make the vehicle stick out in Trikru.

\--

It doesn’t stick out until he notices the SUV there for a third night in a row.  
When Lincoln moves closer to inspect it, it peels off onto the dark street.

No license plate.

He frowns.  
Mountain Men.

\--

He doesn’t see the SUV again, but it doesn’t mean they’re gone. Just that they got better at hiding.

“I’ll install more cameras,” Nyko mutters from his desk, as the two of them share some take-out after PT.

“You think it’ll make a difference?” Lincoln asks around a mouth full of noodles.

“No,” his friend answers honestly, “But maybe it’ll help us figure out what they want,” he pinches the bridge of his nose, leaning back in his chair, “…remind me to increase my insurance on the building.”

“Anya and Indra will want to know,” he says without much feeling.

Nyko meets his stare with an understanding frown, “…let’s wait and see if anything comes of it, before we get the club involved.”

Lincoln agrees, but the uneasy feeling doesn’t leave.

\--

Another week passes. One day, Bellamy (the brother) is running late to pick her up from her session. They’ve talked enough that Lincoln feels confident in offering her a ride home. Maybe a little hopeful.

He’s happy when Octavia agrees, but that changes once they get to the parking lot. The second he hands her his spare helmet for the bike, she stares at it before shoving it away. Then makes up an excuse about having to meet someone named Clarke, and leaves as fast as she can for the bus stop.

He watches her go, not sure what to do, or what he did wrong.

\--

When she comes back to the gym two days later, she makes awkward, somehow apologetic small talk about a band she saw at the bar the night before. He knows the band, and the bar, so he listens with easy nods—mostly relieved that she still wants to talk to him after whatever happened the day before.

But he wishes he knew more about her. Or, at least, he wishes he could figure out a way to ask.

 

**iii.**

Lincoln’s time passes the same as it always does: sketch, train, therapy, train, ride, sleep, and repeat. Sometimes, in the morning, he watches Octavia dance. Once, he thinks he senses her watching him train in the boxing room. But nothing changes between them. Not in the way he’d like it to. Lincoln hasn’t offered to take her home since that day in the parking lot, and she hasn’t given him an opening to try again.

Lincoln’s time passes the same as it always does, until one night (two months after his fight against Tristan, one month since she wrapped his fingers) he comes home to his apartment complex, and sees Octavia lying in a crumpled heap at the base of the stairwell.


End file.
